Play by Play: 18 Hours in the Epicenter of St. Pat's

By
Pete Wayner and Leah Stacy

Mar 18, 2013

Boston is the epicenter of St. Patrick's Day in America, and (save for the Southie parade) the Black Rose is the epicenter of St. Patrick'sDay in Boston. The iconic bar isn't just well known in The Hub; its reputation extends deep into Ireland, from which it draws much of its staff, at any given point employing 15 Irish servers to dispense perfect pints of Guinness to a mix of locals, students and tourists. Intrigued as to how these men and women can cope with the furiously alcoholic 16-hour onslaught that is St. Paddy's Day in Boston, we embedded two reporters and had them chronicle, minute by minute and pint by pint, the Black Rose's busiest day of the year.

The Data:

Bands that played throughout the day: 3

Make out sessions witnessed by the end of the night: 18

Keg changes for Guinness: 14

Number of total Guinness kegs in the basement: 36

Number of times the band upstairs played "Galway Girl" and "Ring of Fire" back-to-back: 5

Number of corporate sponsors for the event: 4

Number of people the bouncers turned away or threw out: 35

Number of current Black Rose employees from Ireland: 15

Approximate number of pints of Guinness served each hour: 125

Average number of bar tabs running at once: 50

Average number of kilts seen at any given time: 6

The Day:

7:45 a.m. The streets of downtown Boston are empty — like a Walking Dead episode. Only the Black Rose is alive. A line of patrons stretches the length of the green-paneled, two-story building.

7:50 a.m. Christine Carroll, the first downstairs bartender we encounter, complains about a Facebook friend as she preps the first floor bar. "'St. Patties' is how she spelled it — like a burger! And she's Irish, too — like I'm about to delete ya!" She turns to us. "What's Esquire?"

8:00 a.m. Golden Guinness balloons are quickly inflated and tied to a banister that divides the first floor dining room from the bar. The manager, Terry, makes his final rounds, consulting staff and gauging their readiness.

8:03 a.m. A bagpipe rendition of "Amazing Grace" squalls from giant amps positioned on the stage by Radio BDC, an internet radio station. People file in and cluster at tables, staking out spots that they will hold and defend for many hours. Cruelly, due to a local ordinance, they will not be allowed to drink until 10.

8:34 a.m. Terry cracks all ten knuckles and runs upstairs. The computers are rumored to be down. Danielle Vitali, an upstairs bartender, is outside checking IDs in Terry's stead as he scrambles to fix the machines. The customers are drinking orange juice and eating Irish breakfasts, arguing over whether this is American ham or Irish bacon before them.

8:50 a.m. A young group of friends soaks up the grease of the Irish breakfast to assuage last night's consumption of a 36 rack. The one girl in the group begs for Guinness before 10 a.m. "I start a new job today at 1 p.m.," she croaks, pushing a lopsided, frizzy ponytail to the other side of her head. Bartender Paul Daniels, eying the dry crowd, notes, "It's always weird every year to be behind the bar and not serving Guinness or something."

9:15 a.m. The first floor bar area is stacked four people deep and no alcohol will pass lips for another 45 minutes. People keep asking for Guinness. "Apparently they don't think it's odd that no one else is drinking," cackles an older woman in a long white coat after Paul denies another request. "Pour me Guinness," whines ponytail girl. "It tastes like coffee to me."

9:19 a.m. An Irish flair-off is won by a man with dyed handlebar mustache, Viking helmet and Rasta cap with green synthetic curly hair. Prizes are distributed to everyone. There are no losers today.

Walter Downing pours a Guinness on St. Patrick's Day.

Photographs by Pete Wayner and Leah Stacy

The Black Rose, as seen from its second floor.

9:22 a.m. Radio BDC's DJ prompts the audience to singing "The Irish Rover" with him: "If you don't know the words, you're not Irish."

9:30a.m. Local band Gentleman Hall starts strong, attempting to distract revelers who are dangerously sober, or, if they got a head start, veering dangerously close to sobriety. It's about 12 hours earlier than the average show for this young band, which should explain why the lead singer kept repeating, "tonight" and ended the set with "have a good night."

9:33 a.m. Christine, 34, changes the channel to soccer -- or as she would say in her native Dublin -- the football match. The majority of Americans in the bar immediately lose interest. Three bartenders manage the downstairs bar, with another three upstairs. Three taps are dedicated to Guinness alone. Behind the counter, 12 brands of Irish Whiskey shine in the morning sun.

9:54 a.m. Downstairs barkeepWalter Downing, 47, stares out at the crowd through gray, watery eyes, ready for the onslaught. He wears a green shirt with the Black Rose logo on it, and his hair is short and neatly trimmed. He lives in Cambridge and his accent is all Boston. Christine adds glasses to the 60 or 70 already displayed. For the moment, the band is distracting most people from their growing thirst. The tension is palpable.

9:56 a.m. The first tap goes down — it's Guinness. Walter is prepping the first pints for the rush. Upstairs, Danielle begins filling five pints of Guinness at once, letting them sit and develop a good head before finishing each draft.

9:59 a.m. "Oh shit. it's 10 a.m.!" comes from the Gentlemen Hall lead singer. The crowd cheers. Later, Walter would call this the most harrowing chunk of the day. "400 people wanted a pint of Guinness," he says.

10:05 a.m. Walter is a wizard. Boom, tap goes down, glasses under, another, another, another. Both hands full, Guinness slopping over the side of the glass, he deftly hands orders to the waitresses.

10:08 a.m. The three bartenders downstairs form a humming machine, well-oiled and smooth. Christine wears a tight green t-shirt with white trim that displays the name of her homeland. Her blond hair is tied back, except for bangs, which whip around with her rapid movements. A shamrock sticker adorns her right cheek. Her voice is already hoarse and she cradles three full pints of Guinness like eggs in her hand.

Walter Downing pours a Guinness on St. Patrick's Day.

Photographs by Pete Wayner and Leah Stacy

Christine Carroll serves a few customers their car bombs.

11:45 a.m. A disturbing puddle of green beer warms on the sidewalk outside where people are lined up to snag tables for lunch. There's an array of Irish dishes on the special menu — traditional corned beef and cabbage with a cream sauce, hearty Guinness stew, Reuben sandwich and thick-cut fries. Upstairs bartender Lisa McDermott, 32, is calm and collected. Paul calls her "the best bartender in the whole spot." She grabs a few bites of French fries at the bar during a lull — the only break she gets before her eight-hour shift ends.

1:12 p.m. Danielle pours a shot of rum, and it's the only rum seen the entire day.

1:30 p.m. A tall man walks up to the bar and tells Paul to open a $500 tab and give everyone free beer. It's gone in 15 minutes, even though the crowd started to thin out as the morning revelers finished their lunches and drifted home for a long midday snooze. Bridget Keys, 31, is visiting from Columbus, OH. She stood in line for 30 minutes just to find that the $10 cover doubled when she reached the door. However, $20 to spend a few hours here is no big deal.

1:54 p.m. The band upstairs tries to get people to sing the chorus to "Galway Girl," with limited success. They experiment by changing the words to "Boston Girl." That works better.

2:10 p.m. An assessment of T-shirts present: "Kiss me, I'm wicked single," "An Irishman walks out of a bar (no really it can happen)." A man punches the air in enthusiasm for the fiddler's frenzy. Peopledance jigs. A birthday party claps and stamps. "Anybody here from Dublin?" the singer asks. "Dublin, California!" someone responds. Whether Dublin, California, exists is disputed. (It does.)

2:18 p.m. Christine serves two bottles of Bud Light with glasses of ice. That's how they do it in Dublin, she says — and they never serve just one.

2:20 p.m. Christine pours three "Irish car bombs" for Nathan DeGasperis, a man with a booming voice. He says later he felt bad ordering them, considering she was Irish, but he didn't know what else to call them. Christine doesn't seem to mind. Nathan, 31, is half Irish and half Italian. "I can eat all the pasta I want and drink all the beer I want. It's fantastic," he says. He and his fiancée woke up at 6:30 a.m. to get here, and he will spend around $400 before the day ends.

2:25 p.m. Christine reiterates how to spell "St. Paddy's" correctly.

3:15 p.m. Dancing kicks up downstairs. A kid, a couple, and one girl who actually knows what she's doing. The energy rises to a fever pitch, with everyone clapping and cheering.

3:26 The tall man comes back and opens another $500 tab. It once again disappears in 15 minutes.

3:59 p.m. The bartenders change shifts. Walter, Christine, Paul, Danielle, and Lisa gradually disappear. "One life, one love, one life to get shitfaced," sings the Celtic Clan upstairs. The crowd cheers in agreement.

4:17 p.m. Seven keg changes for Guinness so far. They're stacked three high and twelve deep in the basement. A man wearing the Irish flag as a cap saunters upstairs, hailed as "Captain Ireland" by the crowd.

4:35 p.m. The smell of marijuana wafts in from the men's room. It lingers for hours.

Walter Downing pours a Guinness on St. Patrick's Day.

Photographs by Pete Wayner and Leah Stacy

6:11 p.m. The Black Rose now seems packed, raucous, and increasingly sloppy, mirroring its patrons. The soft morning glow is traded in for a harder, more crazed atmosphere. The sun disappears.

6:19 p.m. A girl sits in the corner with her head down. Her beads hang down like a sad dog's ears. She holds a half-finished pint with both hands.

6:45 p.m. Spilled beer coats many surfaces, topped generously with salt from capable barbacks to avoid slips. Three Irish girls walk out of the bar, leaving a boarding pass on the table. Her seat was 19B on an 8-hour flight from Seattle.

7:45 p.m. A woman with rainbow fishnets, fuzzy lime, knee-high boots and short forest-green shorts walks up the stairs as the guys at the top start chanting, "Green boots, green boots." She graciously poses for a series of photos with the flat-capped crew.

8:34 p.m. In the name of Boston sports teams, the whole bar explodes during the chorus of "Sweet Caroline."

11:35 p.m. A bouncer requests his name not be mentioned in any stories because fights are breaking out and he doesn't want any of the pugilists to know his proper name.

11:51 p.m. A blonde girl in a green and silver sequined bow yawns beside her beau, who is squinting at his iPhone from beneath a Red Sox cap. Two foamy Guinness glasses sit before them: hers, nearly untouched, his, now drained as he swigs the last drops. Upstairs, the crowd is beginning to thin. The dining tables downstairs have been moved to make way for dancing, however, and the bar area is still three bodies deep.

12:28 a.m. ESPN shows a commercial for LiverAid, a supplement that boosts liver function. No one notices.

12:58 a.m. The lights upstairs switch on. It will be another 20 minutes before the Black Rose staff sweeps away from their group photos to the lower level.

1:29 a.m. The upstairs barbacks sweep trash and heckle each other. A greater task lies downstairs, now the locus of the party.

1:47 a.m. Black water and filth cover the men's room floor and tracks into the main bar downstairs. The lights are on. Some of the few remaining patrons stare with arched eyebrows while others kiss passionately.

2:00 a.m. The bar is empty again except for employees and a few musicians. Like this morning, people stumble, trying to wake up. But the Black Rose, now fully lit, tells its tale all too well. As Nathan said hours ago, "You're in Boston. St. Patrick's Day — it's the biggest Irish party in America. So you gotta get ready to go do it."

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